Empress of the Gods

Atarah

Atarah slowly opened her eyes, feeling a twinge in her head. When she tried to raise her hand to touch the wound, still feeling disoriented, something stopped the movement. A rope, crossed from shoulder to shoulder, forced her back against a tree. Her wrists and ankles were also tied, forcing her to stay still.

It had stopped raining, but her wet dress matched her jet-black hair. She could feel the cold air against her skin, although someone covered her from it on her right side. A man with short, curly chestnut hair whose gaze was facing to the ground shared the rope that tied them to the tree. He still seemed to be unconscious.

She heard the voice of the hunter and his men from around the campfire close to where she was.

The only one who appeared to be armed to the teeth was the hunter while the others barely carried a blade. Next to the hunter who had his back to her, on the ground, was the bag she took from the messenger.

She was in trouble. That was not supposed to happen, and the worst part was that she didn’t know how to get out of it.

Risking Galad was out of the question even if he was a gift from the Gods sent to protect her. He could bleed in the same way she could. Atarah didn’t want to imagine what would happen if she lost him and she was unwilling to find out. So, she had to figure out how to escape with her own gifts; ones that seemed to have disappeared. She wouldn’t even have been tied to a tree if she’d learned to use her gifts when she was younger. And because of that, she could only manage to use a small portion on rare occasions, meaning she didn’t have full control over them.

The twenty winters Atarah had lived in Khrysaor—the southern kingdom of the witches—had left her feeling trapped with a hollow heart and the constant yearning for more.

Rhiannon Silverclaw—a witch of the northern island of Lhrastsha and the General of Khrysaor—had found her and Myrah in the forest when she was only four years old and Myrah a newborn. Atarah had never known the whole story because Rhiannon never talked about it. She raised them as if they were her daughters, not caring that they were not like her. And she did it in the southern kingdom, considering the inhabitants of the northern island were very closed-off in their convictions.

As much as Atarah wanted to cry, she also wanted to laugh at her current situation. She was about to leave Khrysaor and probably end up in a less comfortable place. She was imagining all those terrible scenarios thanks to those rumors about the hunters that traveled to other kingdoms; of how they hunted creatures that would give them fame and fortune in the human realms.

The rope was starting to mark a pink line on her wrists, and her gifts still didn’t seem to respond to each attempt at using her fire. She didn’t remember any spells that could help her break free. It wasn’t like she knew how to conjure spells, but Rhiannon had taught her a few of them in case she ever got into trouble—like now—only she couldn’t remember any of them.

The driadae gifts consisted of elemental magic that held no limitations, or so it seemed. Therefore, the witches used to say driadae magic was somewhat wild, uncontrollable, and dangerous, while their magic was more controllable with spells, which had been improved over the years and written into grimoires that only the leader of the clan or the coven inherited. Grimoires kept a pinch of the power that their antecessors had left and were conjured in an ancient language that could only be pronounced by clan leaders. Therefore, they could use nature in their favor if those elements were near them.

Atarah had always felt curious about it—as in the way spells were conjured—but no one had never agreed to teach her. Not even the language of spells that the other witches used.

The witches’ realms, Khrysaor and Lhrastsha, were established by several clans and in each kingdom, the leaders of these clans formed a council of witches. Khrysaor’s council, due to its concerns, had forbidden Rhiannon to teach her the language of spells. They also forbade her to use her gifts because they were believed to be too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous for her.

For that reason, as Atarah grew older, she’d tried to ignore the tingling in her fingertips. It was how she felt when her gifts were ready to be used, but every time she ignored them, she felt like a snowball that rolled and grew more and more, sensing that one day she wouldn’t be able to control them. The truth was that she feared her own power. That’s why she tried to use them when no one observed her. Not to mention sometimes it was the only thing she could think about and even craved. She was drawn by her own power, but Rhiannon warned her what would happen if she used her gifts, and how they would lose the protection of the southern kingdom.

Atarah had tried to convince Rhiannon to let her train with the coven, but the answer always disappointed her. She told her it wasn’t necessary since she had the protection of the coven and the southern kingdom of the witches, but instead of protection, it had felt more like they were holding her captive. Even if Atarah knew those words came from the council, she didn’t dare to fight it, for her sister and the coven. Only, they couldn’t have known they were taking away part of who she was. Not to mention, training was the only thing that took her mind of the nightmares that haunted her.

Atarah had observed the coven training and tried to imitate their moves expecting it would be useful to her one day, so that when the time came, she could put up a good fight. Although, without a weapon, she doubted it would help her escape this hunter who doubled her strength.

Atarah felt a slight movement on her right side, pulling her out of her thoughts. She had completely forgotten she was not the only one tied up. She tried to look at the man next to her, who made a sound that indicated he was starting to regain consciousness. The stranger opened his eyes and closed them again, repeating the movement one more time. She heard him curse in a low voice. Something she was also doing in her mind.

“Where am I?” he asked, disoriented, in a deep voice.

“You are tied to a tree in Khrysaor,” she whispered, resting her head on the tree as she observed their captors, trying to burn the rope with her hands, only she didn’t ignite a single spark.

“How long have I been unconscious?” the stranger whispered.

In response, Atarah shook her head. “I don’t know. I just woke up too,” she answered without taking her sight of the campfire, hearing the stranger curse again under his breath, leaning his own head against the tree.

Those men didn’t seem calm at all. Atarah didn’t need to lower her mental shield to know they couldn’t wait to leave that place. It was written all over their faces, and they kept looking around as if they expected to be surrounded by an army of witches at any moment. While the hunter remained calm, sharpening his blade with a stone.

Even if they tried to speak in a lower tone, she could hear every word they uttered.

“What do you think they will do with her? Will they put her in a dungeon or burn her at the stake?” asked a burly man to another who had a scar on his cheek which had not properly healed. The man with the scar fixed his gaze on her, looking at her from top to toe, making her want to puke the only food she had in her stomach. Her blood boiled through her veins, and she clenched her fists, feeling her nails in the palms of her hands.

His gaze moved to the man on her side, and in an instant, his gaze changed. He frowned and spit at the ground as he looked at her. “I don’t give a damn what happens to her. I only want my doubloons,” replied. “But I hope they burn the witch.” He giggled, showing the gaps from where a few teeth were missing.

With what he said, she assumed they had been sent from the human kingdom. They loved to burn any creature they encountered.

“You piece of …” She was about to curse when the hunter interrupted her.

“Careful,” he warned when he stopped sharpening his sword for a moment. “You still are in witches’ realms, and if they hear you, you will be the one who will burn in the stake, or maybe they’ll skin you alive,” he added when he looked around as if any of them were going to appear from the bushes. Then, he concentrated on his sword again, letting everyone listen to the sounds of stone against the blade.

“Luckily, they will have enough on their plates,” mentioned another one who was close to the hunter and had copper hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Atarah clenched her teeth when she remembered the sound of the horn in the first light of the morning. Rhiannon and the coven rode east due to the soldiers who patrolled Khrysaor’s borders. The leader of the coven ordered her to stay at home with Myrah, but she couldn’t ignore the screams in the woods, taking her into her current situation. She helped a couple of witches escape, since not all of them were warriors like Rhiannon.

“You can keep what they give you for the other, but the bounty for the driadae is mine,” said the hunter without looking at them as he buried his sharpened sword into the ground.

“No fucking way,” complained one that was sitting on the opposite side of the hunter, whose patch did not completely cover the wound that crossed his eye. He had been quiet the entire time until that moment. “I lost men in these damn forests,” he grunted as he stood up in front of the hunter who didn’t even move.

“You didn’t even know what she was,” hissed the hunter, taking a step to the front.

“She’s a witch,” replied the man with an eye patch as he got closer to the hunter while he put a hand on the hilt of his sword to prepare for anything that might happen.

“She is a driadae,” corrected a male voice from the bushes. Those who had been sitting instantly stood up while the hunter tightened his hand on the handle of his ax, seeing the warlock sauntering towards him. None of them attacked him, just prepared themselves if they started fighting as they kept their distance from the hunter in case the warlock cast a spell on him.

Cowards. She thought while she tried to recall who the warlock was, but she didn’t remember crossing paths with him. He was wearing a fine coat that she had only seen among noble families in the witch realms. “You don’t have much time before the coven secures the threat from the borders and someone alerts the other witches. Are you sure she is the right one?” The warlock only addressed the hunter, as though the others were not even there.

“She was the only one we found running in the woods,” replied the man with a scar on his cheek. “We didn’t even have to go inside the village.” He giggled, and the one with the eye patch elbowed him in the stomach in response.

The warlock looked at him and then to the hunter. “If you are wrong, Melione will burn you alive, and I will put your heads in spears if you brutes dare to involve me or tell anyone about our agreement,” he threatened them, gritting his teeth when he took a step towards them, moving his hands as if he were preparing to cast a spell.

“No one will find out,” assured the hunter with a calm pose that made Atarah laugh.

“And what makes you think that? Because as soon as Rhiannon finds out, Melione will be the least of your worries, and I can’t wait to be on your trial for treason,” she said with a smile. The warlock with snowy white hair and gray eyebrows approached her and squatted down to be at her eye level. He was so close she noticed the color of his ice-blue eyes that stood in his warm brown features, and a smooth, wrinkle-free face.

“If she survives,” he replied in a cold tone with a smile on his face while the one on Atarah’s face faded. “The great Rhiannon Silverclaw and her pathetic coven will fall. After all these years, that bitch is going to receive what she deserves. She should have left you to die in that forest.”

“You will burn for this as soon as the council finds out about what you did,” Atarah threatened, gritting her teeth before the warlock left. Her hands were starting to get warm, feeling her fire answering to her call.

“Where do you think the order came from?” He gave her a wicked smile before he continued, “But if that were the case, it’d be better than what waits for you with Melione. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” he added, turning his back to her. “The assembly will be grateful we finally took a weight off their shoulders,” he finished saying out loud before he disappeared between the bushes.